The The Dover Anthology of American Literature, Volume 2: From 1865 to 1922

The The Dover Anthology of American Literature, Volume 2: From 1865 to 1922

Bob Blaisdell

Language: English

Pages: 575

ISBN: 2:00297886

Format: PDF / Kindle (mobi) / ePub

At the end of the Civil War, another long and arduous struggle began as the nation attempted to reunite. Literature offered a path toward solidarity, and this concise anthology surveys the writings of major American authors from the war's end to the dawn of the Jazz Age.

Featured works include those of Emily Dickinson, Wallace Stevens, William Carlos Williams, Robert Frost, Langston Hughes, and other poets. Mark Twain is prominently represented among the storytellers, along with Ambrose Bierce, Stephen Crane, and F. Scott Fitzgerald. Three short novels appear in their entirety: Daisy Miller by Henry James, The Call of the Wild by Jack London, and Ethan Frome by Edith Wharton. Speeches by Sitting Bull and Theodore Roosevelt, memoirs by Booker T. Washington and Helen Keller, and many other selections recapture a vibrant era in American literature. Informative introductory notes supplement the authoritative texts.

in the coffin nights. He was anchored out that way, in frosty weather, for about three weeks, once, before old Robbins’s place, waiting for him; and after that, for as much as two years, Jacops was not on speaking terms with the old man, on account of his disapp’inting him. He got one of his feet froze, and lost money, too, becuz old Robbins took a favorable turn and got well. The next time Robbins got sick, Jacops tried to make up with him, and varnished up the same old coffin and fetched it

faced him on three legs. Thrice he tried to knock him over, then repeated the trick and broke the right fore leg. Despite the pain and helplessness, Spitz struggled madly to keep up. He saw the silent circle, with gleaming eyes, lolling tongues, and silvery breaths drifting upward, closing in upon him as he had seen similar circles close in upon beaten antagonists in the past. Only this time he was the one who was beaten. There was no hope for him. Buck was inexorable. Mercy was a thing reserved

desperate struggle was fresh-written on the earth, and Buck scented every detail of it down to the edge of a deep pool. By the edge, head and fore feet in the water, lay Skeet, faithful to the last. The pool itself, muddy and discolored from the sluice boxes, effectually hid what it contained, and it contained John Thornton; for Buck followed his trace into the water, from which no trace led away. All day Buck brooded by the pool or roamed restlessly above the camp. Death, as a cessation of

laugh, and say: “ ’Deed you ain’t! You never said no truer thing ’n that, you bet you.” And once he said: “Hear him beg! and yit if we hadn’t got the best of him and tied him, he’d a killed us both. And what for? Jist for noth’n. Jist because we stood on our rights—that’s what for. But I lay you ain’t agoin’ to threaten nobody any more, Jim Turner. Put up that pistol, Bill.” Bill says: “I don’t want to, Jake Packard. I’m for killin’ him—and didn’t he kill old Hatfield jist the same way—and

always goes round with a teacher; they won’t let him play.” “And your brother hasn’t any teacher?” Winterbourne inquired. “Mother thought of getting him one, to travel round with us. There was a lady told her of a very good teacher; an American lady—perhaps you know her—Mrs. Sanders. I think she came from Boston. She told her of this teacher, and we thought of getting him to travel round with us. But Randolph said he didn’t want a teacher traveling round with us. He said he wouldn’t have